I shed my skin (it blows away with the changing wind)
by misguideddreamer
Summary: In the end, there is nothing left but resignation.


The Keep hums with a nervous energy that keeps all the babes crying for weeks, while her mad king burns his subjects alive. Never before has Elia been so scared of the heat, of the way there is the danger of it curling around her own skin and taking her as it has taken so many others. They tiptoe around him, all of these quiet subjects, small and sickened and unable to do anything.

When Rickard and Brandon Stark burn before her eyes, the tension in the air increases so fast she knows it will snap soon. And when she is not allowed to return to Dorne, she knows her fate is written.

It is a funny feeling, knowing that you will die. Every tick of the clock is another indication she has escaped Aerys's wrath, but it will come, and it will come sooner rather than later. But Elia cannot allow herself to dwell on the fact she will burn alive, consumed by fire. _I am Princess Elia of Dorne, _she tells herself, again and again and again.

_Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, _She repeats the mantra so many times she thinks the words must be etched all over her skin, until the words lose almost all meaning for her. She nurses Aegon, spends more time than she ever has with Rhaenys, and finds delight in every uneasy smile bestowed upon her by her children.

Rhaenys knows, her beautiful sweet daughter, not yet on her fifth name day, knows she will die. _They will spare you, sweetling,_ she whispers into the crown of her daughter's dark head. _One look at your beauty and all the seven kingdoms will fall to their knees and proclaim loyalty to you._ Rhaenys is easily pacified, and returns to Balerion with a quick smile and a laugh. Elia's heart beats a nervous rhythm in her chest, a quick thump thump that started when her fool of a husband spurred his horse past her and will end only in her death.

She stays in her chambers with Rhaenys and Aegon and speaks until her lips are cracked and dry and she can speak no more. She speaks of Dorne- of sights her children will never be permitted to see. She tells them of the smell of spices and the music, and the dresses, even letting Rhaenys try on the Dornish silks Elia still favours over the gowns she is expected to wear here. She tells Rhaenys and Aegon of her life growing up- of Oberyn and his poison tipped spear. She clutches Aegon to her breast and Rhaenys curls beside her, enraptured by the tales Elia tells. When she comes to Nymeria, Rhaenys proclaims she will one day be like her, the fierce warrior princess who ruled the world.

_The gates will be opened_

It is a whisper of a rumour, but it is all the indication Elia needs to act. She waits until the little guards she have leave her, and cloaks herself as best as she can, leaving Rhaenys sleeping peacefully and clutching Aegon desparately.

_You must do this, he must live, _She thinks, but when he is ripped from her arms by a woman who is crying herself, and replaced with a real baby that feels colder than ice, she cannot stop tears escaping from her eyes.

_My Queen, _the woman whispers to her as Elia leaves, dropping one last kiss to Aegon's forehead, and she wonders who this woman is, that she will give up her babe. She wonders if people will remain loyal to her after she dies, if she will be sung about in songs.

That is not her fate, she thinks, and knows she will be remembered by most of the seven kingdoms as a casualty of war. _But Oberyn and Doran will not forget, _she muses, curled up with the first born she cannot save.

She does not sleep that night, alternating between crying and holding Rhaenys, because she cannot afford to spill any tears when they come for her. She must be silver tongued and smart, she must be the wit of Dorne. She must beg for her life and Rhaenys's, and she must come away victorious.

Anything else is not an option.

The sun is setting when they come for her, and the screams she has heard throughout the day ring in her ears. The castle has the deathly quiet of a crypt, and Rhaenys will not stop crying.

_Laugh please, please laugh, you must be happy, your tears must not be the last I see of you. _

So she tells Rhaenys a story and lets her hold the Aegon that is not Aegon. And when Rhaenys begins to cry for her father, she allows her to go to the nursery to put on his nightshirt.

He never loved his children the way they deserved to be loved, Elia knew, and he never loved her enough either. They deserved better than his foolish faith in prophecy, in the prince that was promised, she thinks as she clutches a small vial of poison in her palm. Rhaenys will not die in pain, she promises herself.

And then the scream rips through her and the green glass bottle falls to the floor, forgotten. She holds the baby so tightly to her she thinks he might break, and the screams do not stop, the wail of a young child in absolute pain, and all Elia can this is that she has to get there-_has to get to Rhaenys before it's too late_.

The screams stop and she finds herself backing into her chambers. They have forgotten about me, she thinks, and the thought should fill her with something, but all she can think of is Rhaenys and her laughter, Rhaenys and her tears, Rhaenys who is dead now and can never come back.

You will die for this, she thinks as heavy steps make their way towards her.

She counts with them, the steps which are the only thing that can be heard inside the castle. She counts with them and knows with each second she is closer to her death. She does not care as long as they suffer.

Rhaegar will burn in hell for this, she knows. The Gods must be fair, she thinks, as she crosses the room with her white Dornish silks swirling around her, the bells on her feet making an ominous noise.

Unbowed unbent unbroken, she thinks, again and again and again. Princess Elia of Dorne, you shall not falter.

But when the doors are flung open to reveal the Mountain, when the baby is ripped from her arms so brutally they almost break, she cannot stop the screams that rise to her throat. _Stop! _She screams, over and over, clawing at his head with sharp nails as the baby is thrown against the wall.

Then he is upon her and she scratches at his face with her fingers, tearing the skin from his cheek. And then when he is inside her, he paints her body with another scar each time he thrusts, and she kicks and kicks but nothing happens, and someone is sobbing but it is her, and nothing has ever hurt more than this.

Then fat fingers close around her throat and the world mercifully sinks into darkness.

_note; the title of this one shot is adapted from Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) and there's not enough Elia love in the universe._


End file.
